Archive for the ‘cool birds’ Category

In the same vein as last week’s offering, I’d like to expound stream-of-consciousness-style on the topic of Turkey Vultures.

Tomorrow, September 4th, is the Tour De Fat (TDF) in Fort Collins, an increasingly popular bike parade put on by the increasingly popular New Belgium Brewery. In it virtually all the riders wear costumes or other unusual adornments, thereby making it a spectacle to behold. Now, it also happens to be International Vulture Awareness Day (IVAD), which is a very recent addition to the calendar initially created a couple years ago for the preservation of threatened Old World Vulturine birds. The stars were thus aligned, and all I needed was a reason to conjoin these two disparate occasions.

I learned of an outrage in Sterling Colorado last July, where some cowardly stain on the human race decided to shoot Turkey Vultures there on three successive days and thus have three individuals sent to the Rocky Mountain Raptor Program (RMRP) to remove the shot and undergo chelation treatment to ease the lead poisoning. Maybe I was in a vulnerable moment – I have a lot of those lately it seems – but because of my interest in conservation and humane treatment of animal life, I am put on edge when I hear stories like the above, and something in me then clicked when I learned of the congruence of IVAD and TDF. Like the cosmic pas de deux of a solar eclipse, I realized that this was an opportunity to both participate in TDF as I had always wanted, and to do so serving a higher purpose – communicating the greatness of birds and in this specific case, Turkey Vultures. TuVus lack a syrinx and therefore are unable to speak for themselves in Northern Colorado – but you can bet your ass that I’ll be there to speak up for them tomorrow, in front of thousands of people in a way no one has ever seen before. I will be dressed up as a Turkey Vulture and ride in the parade along with 3 other similarly-bedecked companions, spreading the good word about TuVus as we make sure that at least in Fort Collins, these birds will continue to have a safe place to roost and forage every year.

So what is it with me and Turkey Vultures? When I first brought up my desire to participate in the TDF at a rounds meeting several weeks ago, I think people got the impression that I was a longstanding vulture afficionado, and that like some people I know, they were really my “thing”. It’s reasonable to think that, although I wouldn’t characterize myself that way, especially now that I know several people who in my estimation are true full-on, hardcore vulture-philes.

For me, my interest and appreciation of vultures stems largely from a couple personal relationships I have with vulture individuals, namely the “Old Male” and “New Male” educational Turkey Vultures at the RMRP. I’ve been a handler for the Old Male for over 5 years now, and the New Male for 3 or 4 (I’ve lost count). Before I handled either of these birds I used to think of Turkey Vultures as rather ugly creatures, much in the same way that the people I greet in public when I am handling will often tell me outright. I’d have thus agreed with them 5 years ago, but now when I hear those words, like say, “My god what an ugly bird!” I actually react in a bit of shock and revulsion. It crosses my mind that if I didn’t have that vulture in my care at that moment, I just might pop that knucklehead, be it man or woman, right in the jaw for saying that, as if they’d addressed that sentiment to a child of mine. Of course, in actuality I show much more restraint than that and merely offer a polite verbal counter to that suggestion. But now you know what I’m really thinking when I am responding so diplomatically.

So what changed between 5 years ago and now? Maybe it was just getting to know these birds not just as representatives of their species, but as individuals with distinct personality (or bird-onality?) traits. I can assure you that these birds are distinct from one another, and that even if their feet were obscured from view (the Old Male is missing a couple toes from an ancient bout with frostbite) I could tell them apart from a distance based on just their posture and body language. Over time I watched them closely, and noticed them noticing me in kind. I can’t say what it is they notice or remember about me from one time to the next, but the way they cooperate with me, respond to my voice and actions, and offer me those charmingly quizzical looks, suggests to me that their vulture minds are just as active and curious as my human one. I find myself simultaneously enchanted with both the things I know intellectually, abstractly about TuVus in general, and with these particular birds with their droll characters. Whatever ugliness they have has become invisible to me. The smell of their barf, well, that’s another matter, but in no way do I see anything hideous in these creatures anymore.

Turkey Vulture, in Key West, Florida, 16 December 2005.

A few taxonomic and natural history notes: Turkey Vultures (Cathartes aura) are members of the rather small avian family known as Cathartidae. This strictly New World family also includes the Black Vulture (Coragyps atratus), commonly seen in the southeastern US and in southern Arizona, as well as the condors, the endangered California Condor (Gymnogyps californianus) and the South American specialty Andean Condor (Vultur gryphus). There is also the King Vulture (Sarcoramphus papa), a strikingly plumaged and strictly tropical species, and two other less well-known close cousins of the Turkey Vulture, the Greater and Lesser Yellow-headed Vultures (Cathartes melambrotus and Cathartes burrovianus respectively). Greater and Lesser Yellow-heads are in fact so similar to Turkey Vultures structurally that you really need to get a decent close-up view of their heads in order to tell the difference. You will only find the Yellow-heads in the tropics and subtropics however. For example, I had the pleasure of seeing a number of Greater Yellow-heads in the Manu Biosphere Reserve in Peru back in 2005.

All the Cathartes vultures possess extraordinary olfactory powers, and experiments have shown them capable of locating hidden carrion from miles away. The other vultures are not thought to have as much ability in this department, and instead probably rely more on visual location or just looking for where the Turkey and Yellow-headed Vultures are going to find food.

On a naming note, local naturalist Kevin Cook has said the Cathartids should commonly be referred to collectively just as “condors,” to distinguish them from the Old World Vultures. Confusingly, the birds we call “vultures” here in the states include both the Cathartids and the Old World Vultures, with the latter being closely related to hawks and eagles and are thus Accipitrids. In the Old World, Accipitrids are sometimes referred to in the common vernacular as “buzzards”, which here in the US is a term applied to, yes, vultures. Clear as mud, yes?

But anyway, back to Turkey Vultures and Tour De Fat. I hope to have some photos to post in the coming days of my costume and participation in what I’ve christened Tour De Vulture. I don’t know if this will be an annual phenomenon, although I hope it will. During my travels next year, I hope to photograph all the aforementioned Cathartids, and help further the enlightenment of the world about these essential and fascinating birds.

The Old Male Turkey Vulture and me at a recent exhibit in Fort Collins

[Note: this is a slightly-modified version of a posting I made originally to the Rocky Mountain Raptor Program listserv]

If you attended rounds last night or just read Joelle’s Rounds Notes, you know that this promises to be a great day, as 16 Swainson’s Hawks, many of which have spent an entire year or more in our care, will be released to take part in one of the great natural spectacles that our world has to offer. I will be tagging along for the release today, helping where I can of course, but also there to catch a glimpse of the birds which will depart in the next month for the pampas region of northern Argentina, a one-way trip of nearly 5,000 miles. Along with migrating Broad-winged Hawks, Mississippi Kites, and Turkey Vultures, they fly over places like Veracruz, Mexico on their way south in astonishing numbers – the so-called “River of Raptors” in Veracruz in the fall regularly documents as many as 50 THOUSAND Swainson’s Hawks flying through a *day* during fall migration. The total number of raptors passing overhead there in a season is over 3 million.

Now, if you’ve been with the program for any length of time, and helped with any of the programs or exhibits or just overheard the handlers talk about our educational birds, you’ve likely heard the stories about the Swainson’s Hawks and their epic migration. You may already know these birds spend their summers in North America, largely in the American West ranging from northern Mexico up into southern Canada, from as far east as the high plains to as far west as the Central Valley of California. Starting around now they begin to assemble into larger and larger groups, as recently-fledged young disperse from their nesting locations. The young however need to find these groups, because they don’t know the way to go. Apparently past experience with rehabilitating first-year Swainson’s Hawks has shown this to be the case. It’s quite a testament I think to how some birds, even those who we tend to think are not very intelligent or socialized, actually DO use their brains, cooperate at least in some way, and have the ability to be very receptive to new knowledge.

As a handler I’ve often heard other handlers refer to the juvenile Swainson’s Hawks as “young and dumb”, and I wouldn’t necessarily argue against that, having seen how they behave in their flight cages. But think about it — after these birds have completed an annual migration cycle, where they’ve paid attention to landmarks along the way, and having been guided by seasoned adults, they are then in subsequent years able to do the trip themselves, and even lead the way for the next generation. That’s called LEARNING. That means they have good memories, that they were paying attention to where they were, to whatever other sky phenomena they may use to guide themselves on this remarkable journey through vast desert, urban, rainforest, and savanna biomes. How is that any different from how WE are? Who among us is so inherently brilliant to have mastered so many life skills without the guidance of at least someone at some point? Well, maybe a couple of us, I don’t know, but certainly not me. For my part, I can say that in this specific way, I identify with the Swainson’s Hawk. Inasmuch as the birds we are about to release today are going to embark on the epic journey that will define the rest of their lives, I salute them and admire them for what they are about to do, and for the symbol of freedom, exploration, and determination for survival that it represents. What better demonstration of the capacity for growth and change and self-improvement is there, than to answer the call of one’s inner nomad like this?

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This weekend I helped out at New West Fest, and on Saturday we had the female Swainson’s Hawk on display at the booth. At one point, I was relating the great Swainson’s migration to a booth visitor, describing the migration route they take. I told him that they assemble in North America, fly together in enormous kettles through Central America (Honduras, Costa Rica, Panama, etc.) and then reach the Darien Gap which connects Panama to Colombia and the rest of South America. I then said that after that we don’t really know where they go next, just that after another couple weeks they are in northern Argentina.

But I was mistaken. We now actually DO have a pretty good idea about where they go. Take a look at this map:

This is a map compiled recently from a study involving the fitting of satellite tracking devices onto migrating hawks. What is astounding to me is how, once they arrive in South America, these birds take as direct a route to their wintering grounds as possible. They’re not spreading out over the vastness of the Amazon, lost or confused or distracted – no, they know exactly where they need to go, and they’re not messing around. And don’t be misled by that little bend they take in their path around central Bolivia – that is a strategically smart detour they take, because that allows them to not waste energy flying over the unforested high Andes and the resource-sparse altiplano. It’s brilliant really, but it’s only in the past few years that we now have the scientific data to demonstrate just what these birds do on their southbound trip.

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Back to the booth this weekend. I got to give my own Swainson’s spiel of course, but also listen to other handlers’ spiels, which was very interesting to me. In general, and this applies for any booth experience, people are initially confused by the mere name “Swainson’s Hawk”, as most laypersons have never heard that name before. Handlers tend to then explain, myself included, that the bird was named after someone named Swainson, which seems true enough, but then also add in, only half-jokingly perhaps as a way to bond or connect with the person we’re talking to, that Swainson must have had a big ego to name a bird after himself. After hearing that apocryphal explanation several times that afternoon, I got to wondering, what’s the real story there? Did Swainson really name a bird after himself? So, that night after I got home I did a little research…..

There was indeed in the early 1800s a British man named William Swainson. He was one of many amateur naturalists in that era who essentially were professionals, once they had a regular source of income that could pay for the time it took to collect specimens and participate in nature societies like the Linnean Society, of which Swainson was a part. In his case, he “retired” young on a military pension, and spent the rest of his life indulging his real passion, which apparently was studying animals and making illustrations. He became quite accomplished at making lithographs. He was one of the first if not *the* first person to make pictures like this, and I encourage you to do a Google image search on “Swainson’s lithographs” to get an idea of the kinds of illustrations he made. John J Audubon was an admirer of his, for good reason. Swainson worked with another naturalist named John Richardson and in the late 1820s they produced a volume called Fauna Boreali-Americana, which featured hundreds of Swainson’s excellent depictions of birds observed and collected by Richardson in North America. From what I can tell, Swainson himself never visited North America, although he did spend a fair amount of time in Brazil.

Anyway, one of the birds depicted in the book was indeed what we now call a Swainson’s Hawk, but of course it wasn’t identified as such in it. Richardson had described the bird as a form of Buteo vulgaris, which is now called Buteo buteo, basically the Common Buzzard of Eurasia. (The Common Buzzard is a close relative of all buteonine hawks, which if you aren’t aware, includes Red-tailed Hawks, Rough-legged Hawks, Ferruginous Hawks, Broad-winged Hawks, and many others.) A different naturalist some years later, Charles Bonaparte, noticed this and corrected this error. He knew that the bird in Swainson’s illustration was a different species, and it was he, NOT William Swainson, who was the first to give a scientifically correct description of it. However, he too was an admirer of Swainson’s work, and in tribute to his great lithographs, he named the bird after Swainson, Buteo swainsoni. And THAT is how the Swainson’s Hawk got its name.

In this manner, Swainson had other types of birds named after him too, including the Swainson’s Thrush, Swainson’s Warbler, Swainson’s Flycatcher, and Swainson’s Toucan (now usually referred to as the Chestnut-mandibled Toucan, although the scientific name still bears the swainsoni tag). From what I can tell, in that era of discovery and exploration in the 1800s it was actually quite rare for a naturalist to name a bird after himself – instead, he usually named it after someone else who he admired, or otherwise though deserved mention in some way. That’s still generally true I think.

That all said, I did also learn though that it’s not unfair to posit that Swainson probably did have a big ego. In an unrelated matter, Swainson later in his life moved to New Zealand, and a few years after that was offered a position as a “Botanical Surveyor” in Australia, based largely on his sterling reputation as a naturalist and illustrator. However, Swainson had little or no real experience with plants, and other more knowledgeable and experienced botanists of his day were more than a little annoyed at his simplistic and casual approach to describing new plants in Australia, where he took it upon himself to name hundreds or even thousands of species of plants, many of which weren’t really separate species in the first place.

In my book, that takes some cojones and an ego, to go into a field that you know you’re not an expert in and just go all willy-nilly on a naming spree, just because you can.

I wanted to be the first person in the history of humanity to have a blog post with this title. This is the name of a recently rediscovered bird, found in a very remote and amazingly undisturbed rainforest in Papua-New Guinea, Indonesia. The bird was known previously from specimens collected well over a century ago, and unseen since, entirely because no one knew where the bird could be found.

Birds of Paradise are part of the aptly named family Paradisaeidae, which has between 38 and 45 extant members, depending on whichever taxonomy you prefer. Berlepsch’s, once evaluated by ornithologists, will surely be added to this. Birds of Paradise are truly breathtaking creatures, in many cases ornamented in spectacular otherworldly fashion. And if that weren’t enough, the courtship displays of some species are just as outrageous as their outfits.

Listers can be happy to know there is yet another bird to be seen in the world, without requiring some committee-decided species split. Conservationists can be happy to know that this bird, as well as a number of other newly discovered or rediscovered creatures, appear to be thriving in this untouched wilderness. And those of us who are both definitely enjoy the double-whammy.

After my previous short post on seeing the Rosy-Finches, I thought I should say a little more about them. I made it sound almost like all I cared about was ticking them off on some of my many lists.

As I mentioned earlier, it was a brutally cold morning. Allenspark is at about 8,000 feet elevation, and it’s not far from Longs Peak, the northernmost of Colorado’s 14ers. A strong westerly wind was coming down the long slope toward Allenspark, and at 7:20am it was about 12 F with 20-25 mph winds, gusting to 40. Couple that with my lack of good gloves, and I was only good for about 10-15 minutes at a time outside, before retreating to my truck to thaw out a bit.

But I had the Rosy-Finches to cheer me up. I was thoroughly charmed by them, and spent much time studying their behaviors. They were already at the feeders when I arrived, so no waiting or struggling see them. And even though I’m a wuss in this mountain weather, the finches are unflappable, just doing their thing in spite of the conditions. They’d arrive and park in the treetops for a few minutes, as pictured here, and after a few minutes a couple brave finch souls would head to the ground to start foraging, either at the feeders, or more often than not, in some other seemingly random area around the inn. The fun was trying to figure out what on earth they were going for, but whatever it was, it certainly had them interested. A few scattered seeds, perhaps – it was hard to say. But they’d walk and hop around, and even get pretty close to me as I stood there snapping photos of them.

I also spent considerable time studying their plumages. They of course come in what is now recognized as three varieties – Gray-crowned, Brown-capped, and Black. I find their colorations difficult to describe, especially collectively; they consist of a subtle yet elegant blend of browns, pinks, grays, and blacks. And it often seemed as if each bird had a unique blend of these colors, with personal gradations specifying a precise age, wear, and sex. Perhaps it was just the cold affecting my brain, but I found it hard to concentrate on watching any individual for long – trying to separate each bird by species and so on became very difficult after a time. Their behavior borders on madcap in character, and coupled with their exotic appearance, I became transfixed not on details or individuals, but on the whole roving mass. If not for the comparative permanence of the camera, I’m not sure I’d remember what I’d seen today.

If you’re ever in the area, I highly recommend a special trip to see these birds. Hopefully we’ll all see them next in more amenable weather than I had today, but rest assured that whatever conditions await you, the Rosies can handle it.

We are blessed here in North America with one of the most fearsome as well as evocative birds – the Great Horned Owl. It is a familiar bird to most people, and yet probably only few have ever had the opportunity to witness them in closer quarters. They are by no means rare, but they are rarely seen or heard by the population at large – in most cases you do have to go looking for them to see them, often at night. The good part is that when you do see them, you will be enchanted by those huge forward-facing yellow eyes staring at you. And even if you don’t see them, just hearing their hoots, especially if you’re camping in the woods and you wake up to hear them at 4am as I have, can be just as exciting. There’s something inexpressibly haunting about knowing there are highly skilled hunters prowling the tree canopy in the dead of night.

The Great Horned Owl belongs to the Family Strigidae, the “typical owls”. This is a fairly large family, consisting of over 160 species worldwide, of which 18 live in North America. The Great Horned is not actually the largest North American owl (Snowy and Great Gray Owls are larger), but it is pretty large as owls go. They are most familiar for their resonant low-pitched hoot calls, which are what most people imagine owl calls to be – usually, two rapid hoots, followed by 2-4 slower hoots. They are nocturnal hunters, preferring to feed mostly on small mammals like rodents ands rabbits; passerine birds and sometimes game birds like quail or pheasant; and other small critters like lizards or scorpions. However, they are also capable of taking down even larger prey like skunks – at the RMRP we recently admitted a GHOW that anyone with a sense of smell would know had just been feeding on one. Great Horneds will also prey upon other birds of prey, especially their nestlings. I’ll discuss shortly how they manage to do that effectively.

First, a couple images I’ve captured. Last September I snapped this shot of a GHOW at Cottonwood Hollow, just off Prospect Rd in Fort Collins near the Poudre River. It was kind enough to light onto a branch only yards from the trail, but as you can see it gave me the evil eye as I edged gingerly toward it for a closer look. Even though they are largely nocturnal, Great Horneds can be active during the day too, as this one was. One possibility is that this one was looking for a new nest site. GHOWs don’t build their own nests, but rather seek abandoned ones belonging to other large birds. They can also nest in tree cavities, crevices, or stumps.

Speaking of nest sites – earlier in April while on a trip with the RMRP, I got this unfortunately blurry shot of a nesting GHOW in Frank State Wildlife Area, east of Fort Collins. Not easy to see, but there are 4 nestlings being watched over – an unusually high number for the species, which normally raise no more than 3 at a time. Our trip leaders remarked that this wasn’t the only fruitful nest they’d seen recently. Apparently last spring was a good one for Great Horneds here.

The definitive outward physical feature of GHOWs is their ear tufts, often called horns, but technically referred to as plumicorns. They are the source of this bird’s common English name, but these tufts are not actually associated with its ears. Owl ears are located on the sides of their heads, asymmetrically, so that they are better able to pinpoint sound direction with utmost precision, especially at night. The tufts, on the other hand, serve as both mood communicators to other owls (they can be erected or lowered), and as “shape interruptors”, a useful adaptation that makes it harder for prey to identify them as a predatory bird. The idea here is that the “horns” make it more likely that a prey item will not recognize the body shape of the owl, if, say, it is perched nearby in low light.

One of the reasons GHOWs do as well as they do is that their nesting cycle starts considerably earlier than many other birds – some breed as early as January. Their thick plumage and diverse feeding habits allow them to overwinter in colder climes, and to survive late winter freezes. This basically gives their young, who are fledged by March or April, a head start on any other nesting birds in their area, making it all the easier to prey on them and especially their young. Their prey list includes not only small owls, but even the young of other birds of prey like Osprey or Red-tailed Hawks. This early breeding is a remarkable adaptation which helps us understand why their range is as large as it is – an expansive diet increases options especially in places where specific food sources are highly cyclical.

Another reason GHOWs do well, and one reason they are such a cool bird, is that their feathers come with an amazing feature whereby the barbs on the leading edge of the flight feathers are especially long and well-separated. This serves to reduce turbulence and therefore wing noise while in flight – a silencer, if you will. The reduction in flight noise is dramatic – while tending to GHOWs in the large flights (cages) at the RMRP, I’m stunned by how silent those that fly overhead from one high perch to the other are, even while flapping. Not only does this allow them to hear their prey more easily, it gives them an extra stealth factor while honing in on their target. This feature isn’t unique to Great Horneds – in fact it is present in many owls, and even some nightjars – but it is one that for them has evolved to perfection.

Just because a bird is familiar doesn’t mean it can’t also be a cool bird. The Great Horned Owl is a perfect example of that – we in North America should be thrilled to have them right here lurking in our own neighborhoods.

Welcome to the first installment of a new feature for Feather Weather, a regular series on Cool Birds. These posts highlight birds which possess outstanding traits, sometimes beautiful, sometimes scary, sometimes just outright peculiar. These birds surprise and inspire us, and help us appreciate the grand biodiversity of our planet. Our inaugural feature today will be for the very distinctive Hoatzin, a bird that some consider the strangest bird in the world.

I was fortunate enough to go on a 5-day trip to the upper Amazon basin last May, specifically to Manu National Park in Peru. Tropical South America is the only place in the world where you can find the unique Hoatzin (pronounced “waat-zin”). This photo was taken by me on our last day in Manu, on Otorongo Lake (an oxbow lake near the river, a common place to find Hoatzin). We plied the calm lake waters in a small catamaran, and came across a half dozen individuals on a snag over the water. The other 4 left, but this character (and the one in the photo below) hung around to see what we were on about. I only had my Nikon point-n-shoot, but we got close enough for me to get this decent shot. It was a memorable moment, drifting as close as we did, all the while hearing the hiding birds perform their enigmatic wheezy whine calls.

The Hoatzin has a very primeval appearance – a blue patch of featherless facial skin, an upright spindly crest, and bright red eyes. The nestlings also possess something extremely rare among living birds – hooks at the elbow on either wing, to help them clamber back up logs or branches, in the event that they fall to the ground or into the water below. With age these hooks disappear, but their resemblance to fossilized features on Archaeopteryx adds to their prehistoric cachet.

The Hoatzin’s digestive system is also highly peculiar. Most birds have a system involving a crop, a gizzard, and the stomach – the Hoatzin’s crop instead has evolved into a foregut, making it more similar to a cow than to virtually any bird. (Only the Kakapo of New Zealand has something similar.) It needs this foregut because it digests leaves and other vegetable matter which require an area to ferment. The fermenting process takes on quite a stench though, and sure enough the bird is sometimes colloquially known as the “stinkbird”. This foregut adds considerably to the weight of the bird, making it something of a clumsy flier, which was apparent when we saw them flutter into the brush in Peru. (Fortunately we didn’t have to experience their stink!) It also means they have to spend some time digesting, which makes them relatively sedate while roosting and not so hard to see for interested birders. As to why the Hoatzin has this bizarre system, researchers remain uncertain.

The Hoatzin has also been difficult to discern taxonomically. Early systematists placed it among the Galliformes, which include birds like quail, grouse, turkeys, chickens, and pheasants. This made some sense, given the unclear relationships between these groupings of birds already – the Hoatzin was yet another mystery set among them. However, with more advanced biochemical and genetic methods, as well as continued anatomical and morphological study, the distinctiveness of the Hoatzin increased, and the closest relatives to the Hoatzin were determined to be the Cuculiformes, the Cuckoos. But including the Hoatzin among cuckoos is problematic not only because of the its aforementioned digestive system, but also unlike any cuckoo, the Hoatzin is anisodactyl, meaning that its feet have 3 toes forward and one pointing back, like many birds. All true cuckoos are zygodactyl, with 2 toes forward and two back. Thus, the Hoatzin is placed in a monotypic family (a family of one species) called Opisthocomidae. A few researchers then go further and place it in its own Order, Opisthocomiformes, while other more cautious types leave it among the Order Cuculiformes.

Regardless of whatever becomes known about the Hoatzin’s lineage, it certainly qualifies as a unique and remarkable creature. The Hoatzin is definitely a cool bird.